The sky emits a grey hue as the smoke of the blackened metal train floats through the domed skylights on the ceiling of the station. Timothy Sparrow runs to Train B as the papers from his satchel dance in the wind behind him. “All aboard Train B, all aboard! Doors closing”, says the conductor as he tips his blue navy cap at the little girl walking beside the vessel. “I’m coming, sir, one moment!”. Timothy halts as he gives his ticket to the conductor, an aggressive imprint from his hand in the middle of it. “Thank you sir, car 7 will be where you’re staying”. Timothy smiles as he looks back to the rounded door as it latches shut. In that very instant, he saw something so profound, so alluring. He never thought he would experience something like this before in his ever so humbled existence. A woman of the most simplistic beauty. Examining  her, brown hair wrapped up in a tight bun with braids on the sides of her head; a blue and white fall-front gown with white flats adorned with one single bow at the top. Her blue eyes wandered as she looked at the people passing, smiling and gliding the quill across her notebook. She looks up at him and smiles. ‘I will never forget a face so pure, so true, so graceful’. He smiles with rubescent cheeks as the train slowly glides on the tracks to the exit of the station, their eyes still  interlocked on one another’s. 

Months pass and Timothy sits patiently on a backless bench at the Covent Garden theater. Pen and paper in hand, he awaits the play to begin so he can cultivate a review for his newspaper column. The lights dim and the people around him start to silence. Music slowly lingers through the theater as bright lights shine onto the blank stage. As Timothy wanders his eyes around the auditorium, he stops in his tracks to see the train station girl sitting in one of the gallery areas to the right of the stage. He doesn’t glimpse at the play starting and only watches her every motion. She laughs at something one of the actors said, her dewy skin beaming as if the stage spotlights were her own. ‘I will meet you properly this time, I promise you’. 

After the play, he rushes out of his seat to where the mystery woman was sitting, others gawking at his rather absurd behavior. People start to rise out of their chairs and his vision of her becomes fuzzy. Pushing and prying through the crowd, he finally makes his way to the gallery seating only to see that her seat was empty and she was leaving through the door. He runs up the small carpeted flight of stairs adjacent to the gallery and dashes through the doorway, his heart full and hope running thin. He sees the back of her head as if it was one he had seen any other day. “Excuse me, miss?”, he says with a slight shake to his voice. “Oh, well hello there!”, she says with a gentle grin, her face turning pink right when she sees who it is. She recognizes me, I’m sure of it. Timothy opens his mouth to say something right as people start plowing through them. “The actors are greeting people outside!”, a young boy says as he holds onto his mother's hand. They dodge people's heads as they try to face each other again, only to get swept up in the crowd. It seems as though a never ending brick wall had separated them for good, Timothy’s hope the last grains of sand in the clear hourglass of what his life could be. 

Propped at his small, wooden desk engraved with floral accents, Timothy sulks as his body melts onto the desktop. He feels as though nothing works, nothing will become of him, and nothing will be waiting for him in the future. Pain swallows his aura as the rain cloud in the sky emerges ever so brazenly. The last grains of sand dance their way down the neck of the hourglass, slowly swaying down to the cultivated mound at the bottom. He finds no inspiration to write, no energy left in his system. He looks out the window, the craving taste of purpose still on his tongue. Observing the market on the next street over, he sees someone, something—like it was the very first time. Aching stress alleviates from Timothy’s strained shoulders, tears filling his view: The train station girl. His eyes light up as he jumps out of his chair, making his way to his bedroom mirror. He touches up his smooth hair and wrinkled moss green vest accompanied by his best beige pants. He  smiles at himself reassuringly, the confidence comes pouring back. Running out the door of his apartment and onto the street sidewalk, he sees her laughing with one of the vendors, her teeth as white as a blossomed Gardenia on a midsummers day. Each step—each stride—felt like an eternity, but he finally made his way behind her. “Excuse me, miss?”, he repeats the same iteration he said at the theater. She turns around and smiles warmly, her natural waves blowing in the faint, crisp  wind. “Hello, sir” . 

    “Nice to meet you ma’am, my name is Timothy Sparrow. Might I have yours?”

    “Adaline Meadows. Pleased to meet you”.

They shake hands, her soft skin touching his rough, calloused grasp.

    “Miss Meadows, pardon me if I sound too arrogant, but I have seen you many a’

places around London. Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your

service."

    “Why Mr. Sparrow, I could say the same thing about you.”

Timothy tries to not show his shock as a burst of joy shoots through his body. At that very moment, everything in life seemed to click. Their faces blush as they gaze into each other's eyes. Paint grazes their minds as they capture this moment on canvas. What a lovely place Bulwarks lane can be.